Some days ago, I wrote about Mom having serious memory issues, and if you read that then you deserve this follow-up:
Mom had been mentally foggy for a week before that incident, just nowhere near as bad. And afterward, talking and texting about it, my sister and I put clues together and realized that Mom had grown foggier after being prescribed low-dose oxy for the pain in her fractured tailbone.
The pain had been decreasing anyway, so we tapered her off the oxy a week early, and now Mom reports more pain, but she’s Mom again.
The choice is, no pain and a flatlined old lady where Mom used to be, or our actual mother — knowing her name, knowing who we are, remembering her life, etc — in moderate pain. The three of us talked it over, and unanimously decided to go with Mom in moderate pain.
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She fell twice more on Monday morning, first from bed, and then from the toilet. This was before I got to the house she shares with my sister Katrina, who calls 9-1-1 after every fall, because just like in the commercials, when Mom’s fallen, she can’t get up without help.
Mom wasn’t injured, and says her only pain is the same back pain she’s been having for weeks — after an earlier fall — but she’s taken four falls so far this month. Every fall is a gamble that something could be broken, especially if she falls in the bathroom, surrounded by the hard porcelain of the toilet and tub. Every fall says louder and louder to me that maybe Mom should be in a nursing home.
I intend to broach the subject with Katrina this afternoon or tomorrow. It’ll be a difficult conversation, and Katrina will probably talk me out of it. To her great credit, she really wants Mom to stay in their house, where Katrina is almost literally always there for Mom.
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Katrina likes to have me along for Mom;s medical appointments, so I’ve tagged along a dozen times. It’s depressing as hell, not just because it’s Mom but because it’s the American medical system.
Every appointment can only be scheduled two months in the future. There are no openings quicker than that, which is, of course, intentional and profitable.
Every visit has a co-pay. Not a problem for Mom, thankfully, but a roadblock to health care for millions, which is, of course, intentional and profitable.
At the eye doctor, nobody knew how to get the vision-testing machines aligned to the level of someone sitting in a wheelchair. The notion that a person in a wheelchair might need an eye exam had apparently never occurred to anyone on staff.
Mom’s main doctor is a geriatrician — a specialist in medicine for old people — but the clinic has only two disabled parking spaces. We always end up parked at the hardware store across the same strip mall, hoping no-one will park in the adjacent stall, because we need extra space for Mom’s wheelchair.
Before every appointment, they want to weigh Mom. She’s frail, and can’t stand on a scale without holding on to something, but they don’t have anything she can hold on to except me. When I offered to hold her hand for stability as she wobbled onto the scale, the nurse’s assistant was aghast, like I’d suggested cheating or something.
Every prescription is a phenomenal clusterfuck. We go to pick it up, and the pharmacist tells us the refill has been denied, but the doctor’s office says they authorized the refills. The pharmacist says they only carry this med in 5 mg or 15 mg, but the doctor has prescribed 10 mg, and they can’t just fill the prescription with twice as many 5 mg tablets so we have to wait an hour for confirmation that it’s OK from the doctor’s office. Etc, every damned time.
All the employees are generally polite, but the actual giving of a damn is not allowed.
On our most recent visit, Katrina, Mom, and I were waiting in the little examining room when the doctor opened the door. He saw me, and his eyes widened in surprise, because I was wearing a mask. He wasn’t. Katrina wasn’t, and Mom wasn’t, but they’re not healthcare professionals.
“Do you want me to wear a mask? I can do that,” the doc said, flustered. His assumption was that I’m sick or susceptible or something, but no, it’s only common sense. I wear a mask when I’m riding the bus, or anywhere in public around strangers, and definitely in a medical environment — and the doctor doesn’t?
“Do I want you to wear a mask?” I echoed back at him, frustrated. “I want you to be a good doctor for my mom,” and then I saw Katrina’s eyes signaling “Shut up, Doug,” so I shut up, Doug, and didn’t say that if the frickin’ doctor doesn’t understand the efficacy of masking up when he’s seeing dozens of patients in a day, why should we take any of his medical advice seriously?
7/16/2026
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